Jacks dusting

Over night Jack Frost and his minions had been busy with his icy duster, besprinkling all and sunder in alabaster finery; every puddle, rivulette or area of exposed water is solid enough to support a man, every fern frond, heather stem and grass stalk is frozen rigid. All in the forest was shrouded it white; crisp, clean, beautiful. Of course, entering the woods the nature of things changes, the ground softens, yields underfoot, shaded by the trees, the woodland has escaped the worst of Jacks actions. Along the fringes though, the land doesn't know which way to go, to freeze or not to freeze, that is the question; here the ice was thinner, easily fractured and broken, the icy grip less fierce as the newly rising sun makes ground quickly, surprisingly warming for the season. A strange juxtaposition of elemental forces is at play. No sign of life is apparent, it's still early though and any right minded woodland inhabitant would be best snuggled in their dry winter bed until the sun reaches its zenith.